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Authors: Eric Spitznagel
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Draco Academy.
The lobby made no sense. If this was indeed the same building, the walls were in the wrong places. It used to be open, like a loft space, with a curve to the right where the counter was, and rows of records running vertically from the door. This was . . . I donât know what this was. There was a lobby about the size of the bathroom in my first apartment. And a fountain. A fucking fountain.
I just stood there disbelievingly, trying to remember if this was where they kept the new releases or the soundtracks.
The nice man in the unnecessarily tight karate giâI think his name was Richardâcame over and introduced himself. He offered to answer any questions I might have. Did I have a son or daughter who was interested in karate?
I lied.
Well, only partly. I did have a son. But he wasnât between the ages of five and ten, which would qualify him for their junior dragons class. He offered a tour when he noticed me peering over his shoulder, straining to see the rooms down the hall, obstructed by walls that DIDNâT USED TO BE THERE. There were kids backthereâI could hear them, grunting as they kicked at the air. The heavy thud of bodies being thrown against mats.
He walked me back, through a narrow hallway and into a larger room, covered in mats and prepubescents. Parents loitered near the walls and eyed me suspiciously. I felt awkward and conspicuous, very much out of place in my Replacements T-shirt and trench coat. Richard in the unnecessarily tight karate gi was giving me the sales pitch. I pretended to listen, while running a finger across the grooves of a white wall, like I was tracing lines on a map, looking for something specific.
I still remember everything about the first time I heard the New York Dollsâ eponymous debut. It was in 1989, in the apartment of a girl Iâd just met. What was her name? Abby? Abigail? Abrianna? Something like that. She had purple dreadlocks. I donât remember if she worked for the Record Swap or if she was just a customer, or why in the hell she was talking to me at all.
She made the first move. She made every move. She coaxed me into a conversation about Henry Rollins, because I happened to be holding a Black Flag record at the time. She invited me out to coffee, which was soon aborted when neither of us could think of a coffee place in Homewood, and we both laughed at our obvious lie.
Abby or Abigail, whoever she was, she took me back to her apartment. Which wasnât far from here. It was like visiting a foreign planet. I wanted very badly to sleep with her, which may explain why I agreed to lie on her futon with her and listen to a band fronted by a guy who, to the best of my knowledge, hit his artistic peak with the single âHot Hot Hot.â I was caught off guard by âPersonality Crisis,â recorded almost two decades earlier, which was admittedly catchy as hell. But I couldnât shake the mental image of Poindexterâs pompadour, or that album cover of him in a tuxedo, sipping a martini, with an expression of âyou caught meâ delight.
You donât get to pick a new identity unless youâre David Bowie.He can be Ziggy Stardust one day and then the Thin White Duke the next, because both of those stage personas are fucking awesome. But heâs the exception that makes the rule. Everybody else is subject to the rock ânâ roll law of diminishing returns. Itâs why Mike Nesmith had such a hard time. You start your career as a Monkee, youâve made your bed.
âYou know what Morrissey said,â the purple-dreadlocked girl told me somewhere around the middle of side one. âMick Jagger stole all his dance moves from David Johansen.â
As much as I wanted to see her naked, those beautiful lavender locks cascading over my chest, I just couldnât let that ridiculous logic go unanswered.
âHow can you say that?â I asked. âItâs like saying
The lobby made no sense. If this was indeed the same building, the walls were in the wrong places. It used to be open, like a loft space, with a curve to the right where the counter was, and rows of records running vertically from the door. This was . . . I donât know what this was. There was a lobby about the size of the bathroom in my first apartment. And a fountain. A fucking fountain.
I just stood there disbelievingly, trying to remember if this was where they kept the new releases or the soundtracks.
The nice man in the unnecessarily tight karate giâI think his name was Richardâcame over and introduced himself. He offered to answer any questions I might have. Did I have a son or daughter who was interested in karate?
I lied.
Well, only partly. I did have a son. But he wasnât between the ages of five and ten, which would qualify him for their junior dragons class. He offered a tour when he noticed me peering over his shoulder, straining to see the rooms down the hall, obstructed by walls that DIDNâT USED TO BE THERE. There were kids backthereâI could hear them, grunting as they kicked at the air. The heavy thud of bodies being thrown against mats.
He walked me back, through a narrow hallway and into a larger room, covered in mats and prepubescents. Parents loitered near the walls and eyed me suspiciously. I felt awkward and conspicuous, very much out of place in my Replacements T-shirt and trench coat. Richard in the unnecessarily tight karate gi was giving me the sales pitch. I pretended to listen, while running a finger across the grooves of a white wall, like I was tracing lines on a map, looking for something specific.
I still remember everything about the first time I heard the New York Dollsâ eponymous debut. It was in 1989, in the apartment of a girl Iâd just met. What was her name? Abby? Abigail? Abrianna? Something like that. She had purple dreadlocks. I donât remember if she worked for the Record Swap or if she was just a customer, or why in the hell she was talking to me at all.
She made the first move. She made every move. She coaxed me into a conversation about Henry Rollins, because I happened to be holding a Black Flag record at the time. She invited me out to coffee, which was soon aborted when neither of us could think of a coffee place in Homewood, and we both laughed at our obvious lie.
Abby or Abigail, whoever she was, she took me back to her apartment. Which wasnât far from here. It was like visiting a foreign planet. I wanted very badly to sleep with her, which may explain why I agreed to lie on her futon with her and listen to a band fronted by a guy who, to the best of my knowledge, hit his artistic peak with the single âHot Hot Hot.â I was caught off guard by âPersonality Crisis,â recorded almost two decades earlier, which was admittedly catchy as hell. But I couldnât shake the mental image of Poindexterâs pompadour, or that album cover of him in a tuxedo, sipping a martini, with an expression of âyou caught meâ delight.
You donât get to pick a new identity unless youâre David Bowie.He can be Ziggy Stardust one day and then the Thin White Duke the next, because both of those stage personas are fucking awesome. But heâs the exception that makes the rule. Everybody else is subject to the rock ânâ roll law of diminishing returns. Itâs why Mike Nesmith had such a hard time. You start your career as a Monkee, youâve made your bed.
âYou know what Morrissey said,â the purple-dreadlocked girl told me somewhere around the middle of side one. âMick Jagger stole all his dance moves from David Johansen.â
As much as I wanted to see her naked, those beautiful lavender locks cascading over my chest, I just couldnât let that ridiculous logic go unanswered.
âHow can you say that?â I asked. âItâs like saying
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